


Date Night

by thingswithwings



Category: Elementary (TV), Marvel 616, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, Canon Trans Character, Control Kink, Developing Relationship, Dress Up, F/F, Trans Character, high femme
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-13
Updated: 2013-05-13
Packaged: 2017-12-11 17:16:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/801157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thingswithwings/pseuds/thingswithwings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's minor character AU crossover femslash! I thought about how these two would interact, and I decided that Ms Hudson would make a fabulous Oracle for Monica.  So, here's a story where Ms Hudson and Monica Rambeau are a superhero duo.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Date Night

**Author's Note:**

> Promptfic for gloss.

Monica kicks open the door and glares inside, clenching her fists and baring her teeth in her best _don't-fuck-with-me_ grimace.

"You're going to drip on the carpet," Ms. Hudson says, breezing past with a cup of tea in her hand. "Why did you bring all that home?"

Monica wipes her arm with her hand and a fistful of monster goo splashes off onto the floor. "It wasn't exactly a choice, Hudson. You had me rematerialize just as the slime creature exploded, and I got covered in it."

Ms. Hudson smiles, going to the cupboard and pulling out big fluffy towels, warm from sitting next to the radiator. "Yes, I remember all the yelling over the radio. You said some bad words."

"What I'm saying is," Monica grits her teeth, "It's your fault that I'm covered in slime."

"Well, okay," Ms. Hudson sighs, "but if you hadn't materialized then – " her eyes go unfocused and bright white, the way they always do when she's using her power. "If you hadn't materialized then, you could've been electrically dispersed into the slime the way you can be dispersed in water."

Monica shivers; she never wants to go through that again. "Fine, okay, whatever." She's still covered in slime, and now she has no one to blame for it.

Goo drips from her clothes and onto the carpet.

"Honestly, go take a shower!" Ms Hudson's eyes go spooky again as she listens to her earpiece, and she says, "nothing else is going on right now, it's all clear. I've laid out some clothes for you in the bedroom."

"It's an on-call room," Monica shouts over her shoulder as she dribbles her way toward the bathroom.

"Whatever!"

The bathroom is full of _things_ – nice soaps, plush robes, colourful framed pictures on the wall. This was only ever supposed to be a base of operations, a place she could use to run the outfit; since Ms Hudson signed on with her, though, it's been getting more and more . . . homey. There didn't used to be nice carpets to drip on, or pretty china cups for the tea, or tea.

She manages to get the slime off of herself without too much scrubbing; to her relief, hardly any of it ended up in her hair, so she doesn't have to get it wet.

The nice soaps really are nice, earthy spices and bright florals, none too cloying, all of which smell good on her. If Ms Hudson weren't so good at all this homemaking stuff Monica'd probably have an easier time telling her to quit doing it.

She throws on a robe to go from the bathroom into the on-call room, but Ms Hudson isn't looking anyway; she's absorbed again by the computer screen, by whatever signals are coming in her earpiece, by a book under her right hand and the dials of a police scanner under her left. Monica wonders, not for the first time, what it's like to see the world that way, to be able to understand patterns and make meaning out of so much information, so much chaos. She figures she'll never know, just like everyone else will never know what it feels like to be a gamma ray, but still – 

But still, it's fascinating to watch, Ms Hudson listening and reading, sorting data into relevant clusters in her mind faster than any computer could ever do it, finding supervillainy in traffic signal patterns and county birth records.

The on-call room usually has an outfit laid out for her, one of her clean uniforms or sometimes just jeans and a shirt if she's heading home, but today it's fairly obvious that Ms Hudson has other plans.

"Hudson!" Monica yells through the door. "What the hell is this?"

"No need to shout," Ms Hudson shouts cheerfully from the other room. Her voice gets closer. "May I come in?"

Monica cinches her robe and says yes. Not that Ms Hudson hasn't seen her naked, but – 

"I thought we could do something different tonight," she says, smiling softly. "You've been on edge lately, and I thought maybe – a break."

"Huh," says Monica. "And you think that thing'll fit?" It's white and flowing like her usual costume, but that's where the resemblance ends; it's sleeveless, cleavage-baring, slinky and soft. On Monica it'll probably cut off at mid-thigh. It gleams in the light with sparkling little silver stones.

"I think you'll look gorgeous," Ms Hudson says, and something about her tone makes Monica turn to look at her. "I can't wait to see you in it."

Monica blinks, takes a breath. "Okay," she says. "For you, Hudson, I'll wear it."

A flash of heat in Ms Hudson's eyes at that, and god, this thing between them is still so new that Monica is shocked and surprised to see it, to see the change from her professional crime fighting-partner to her . . . whatever. Person she's had hasty fumbled sex with in the on-call room a couple of times.

"Good. I've got some jewelry for you, too, when you're done." She turns around and leaves, pulling the door closed behind her, and, speculatively, Monica allows her gaze to linger on her long blonde curls and full hips. 

They've mostly just done it in the dark, after long nights and tough missions, and they've never lingered.

When she takes the dress down off the hook, she finds a bra and panty set hanging behind it, white and frilly to match the dress. She feels hot as she puts them on, her nipples hardening against the low-cut lace of the bra. Everything fits perfectly, and she can't help thinking about how Ms Hudson's information gathering had extended to this, to her body, to the size of her tits and the shape of her ass.

The dress, once it's on, looks fantastic, perfect for her shape and just the right white for her skin tone. She runs her hands up her thighs, pushing up the edge of the skirt, and thinks about it, how it'd feel to have Ms Hudson's hands move slowly and deliberately over her body, taking her out of this outfit she's chosen, unwrapping her in the same meticulous way she unwraps Christmas presents and brown paper parcels.

She finds shoes, too, silver and sparkling and high of heel. They're loud when she walks, clicking authoritatively over the wood floors, and Monica wonders if Ms Hudson wanted that, too, if she thought about this down to the clack of her heels.

Ms Hudson, in Monica's experience, thinks of everything.

When she emerges into the main area, she finds that Ms Hudson has changed, too, her curves now emphasized by a closely-fitted blood-red gown, shiny and slitted up to the hip on either side, with matching red killer stilettos. Her legs flash as she walks toward Monica, and Monica, for once, doesn't try to hide her appreciation.

"Let me put this on you," she says softly, holding up a necklace and tennis bracelet, and Monica holds still and offers her wrist and then her throat to Ms Hudson's warm, glancing touches.

"You look gorgeous," Monica says, holding her hair up from her neck so that Ms Hudson can fasten the necklace. Her dress leaves a lot of skin exposed, leg and thigh and back and throat, and the sensation of Ms Hudson's fingertips against her bare shoulders feels more intimate than their rough occasional sex ever did.

"Thank you. So do you."

"I'll have to let you dress me more often," Monica intones, low and playful. Ms Hudson's hand stills against her nape, then trails down over her bare back, down her spine until it's stopped by the dress.

"I'd – I'd like that," she breathes, after a moment. 

Monica shivers.

"This is the day you pick, for date night? The day I get covered in slime monster?"

"Carpe diem," Ms Hudson smiles.

They don't stop there: Ms Hudson does her makeup as well, dark red lipstick and shimmering eye shadow.

"I feel like your barbie doll," she says, trying not to blink as the mascara is applied, only half serious.

"Well, if that's true you should watch out, because when I used to play barbies it often got pretty NC-17."

Monica laughs. "Me too," she admits. "I always thought it was frustrating that their thighs didn't open."

Ms Hudson's answering smile is bright and happy. "I guess they were supposed to teach us how to be proper ladies." She pulls out a tissue, folds it carefully, and hands it to Monica. "Blot your lips."

Monica does, pressing her mouth against the tissue, but doesn't lose eye contact with Ms Hudson. "It's not really necessary, the way they make lipstick nowadays."

Ms Hudson nods, taking the tissue with its kiss-imprint and setting it carefully on the table next to them, which is odd for her; she usually puts trash directly in the trash. "But still, there's something about the ritual, isn't there?"

"There is," Monica agrees, and offers her arm as they leave the apartment. The air is crisp and cool, shocking against bare skin. Their heels click down the street in unison, and with Ms Hudson's hand wrapped around her elbow Monica feels gorgeous, heroic, invincible.

-

They drink whiskey, the old smoky kind, smooth and complex, the flavor rich against her tongue. Ms Hudson turns around on her bar stool, facing outwards, and Monica watches from beneath her lashes as Ms Hudson draws one leg against the other, slowly, before crossing them at the knee. 

It's the kind of place that would normally make Monica uncomfortable – she'll always be a sailor at heart – but next to Ms Hudson she feels elegant and glamorous, like they're made for all this rich gleaming luxury. Everything here is soft mahogany and rich dark leather, and somehow that suits her mood perfectly. She takes another slow sip of her whiskey.

"So I have to ask," she says, after a long comfortable silence. "Why now?"

Ms Hudson smiles, showing teeth, and replies, "Why not now?"

"That's fair, I guess. But I didn't – I didn't know you wanted this." She waves her glass at the scene in front of them, encompassing the crowded bar and the sights and smells of a date that doesn't begin when you stick your hand inside someone else's superhero costume.

Ms Hudson sips her drink; her lipstick leaves a faint smudge on the glass. "I bought the dress a long time ago," she says slowly. "Then the jewelry, then the lingerie. I had it waiting. Before we ever – before anything."

Monica swallows. "Waiting for what?" Her skirt is short, designed to show off her legs, and sitting at the bar she feels almost naked, like she's on display.

But then, Ms Hudson has always made her feel exposed, no matter what she was wearing at the time.

"See, that's it exactly. Waiting for what." She sighs. "I was born a mutant and I was born a woman, but no one ever told me about either one. I had to figure that out myself. And I always prided myself on that, you know, that I'd done all that without fear." Looking up, she meets Monica's gaze. "But you make me feel afraid."

"Me?" Monica asks, confused. "How?" 

She sets down her drink and lets her hand trail down to Monica's knee. "I know you think I can read you like a book," she drawls, "but I can't, you see. It doesn't work that way for me with people."

"Bullshit," Monica breathes. Ms Hudson's fingertips rub in slow, intimate circles on her thigh.

"Really. I'm a lot better with electronics, with clear-cut patterns. I wasn't – I didn't want to mess it up. And you mean a lot to me."

Monica bends her neck, bringing her mouth near to Ms Hudson's. "You're doing fine now."

"Yeah, I'm really jazzed about that," Ms Hudson says cheerfully.

Monica grins. "Order me another whiskey."

"Two more," Ms Hudson says loudly, taking her hand from Monica's knee and holding it up for the barkeeper's attention, but not taking her eyes off of Monica.

"So you bought the dress a while ago. For me."

"For you," Ms Hudson allows. "I saw it, and I knew it wanted you."

Monica finds herself tempted by the cool smooth expanse of thigh that keeps flashing through the slit in Ms Hudson's dress, so she lets herself reach out, touch, just a single finger tracing along the firm muscle. "Uh-huh," she says.

Ms Hudson sighs. "You feel really good," she says quietly. The bartender drops off their drinks, but Monica doesn't move her hand.

"How did you know I'd – how did you know I'd want to wear it?" 

"I didn't. I still don't. But I knew I wanted to put you in it, see the way you looked in something I picked out. You deserve that."

"What, to be shown off?" She crosses her own legs, and doesn't miss the way it draws Ms Hudson's eye.

A wry grin. "Yes. And treated like you're special."

The thought of it makes Monica's skin feel hot, makes her want to take Ms Hudson out back right now and fuck her, get her hands on Monica's body.

But there is something to be said for the ritual.

Monica's mouth feels dry as she says, "I do want to wear it. I like it. I like that you picked all this out for us, the way you – control things."

"Yesterday I saw it hanging in the closet," Ms Hudson continues, almost as if Monica hadn't spoken, but there's a red flush to her cheek that doesn't have anything to do with the alcohol. "And I was so angry, all of a sudden. I had to do something about it."

Monica sips her drink. "So dressing up and going out to a fancy bar is your version of hulking out," she offers. 

Ms Hudson laughs. "Yeah, you know, it really is."

-

They move on to an equally fancy restaurant and eat beautiful, delicious, delicate food with a dark, velvety red wine; below the table, they let their ankles touch and press together. It's the longest foreplay session Monica's ever been a part of, but it feels good, right somehow, like they needed this night together to transition to whatever their relationship is going to be in the future.

Afterwards Monica leads them back to her place, and once inside she takes Ms Hudson's hands and puts them on her body, over the dress, one on her breast and one on her hip. Ms Hudson's thumb against her nipple is hard and sure.

"I trust you," Monica breathes. "I want you."

With their bodies pressed together, Monica can feel Ms Hudson take a deep, shaky breath. "Can I undress you?" she asks. Monica nods.

She starts with the necklace and the bracelet, setting them carefully on the coffee table, then runs her fingers along the edge of the dress, above her breasts, slowly, as if fascinated by the place where the fabric ends and Monica's body begins. Eventually her arms come around Monica's shoulders and find the zipper, tugging it down firmly, and the dress slips down to pool around Monica's ankles.

"God, you look gorgeous," Ms Hudson murmurs, and Monica feels her nipples tighten at the compliment. She's almost afraid for the moment when Ms Hudson reaches between her legs and finds out how wet she's gotten the new satin panties.

"Thank you," she manages, not sure what else to say.

"Lift this leg," Ms Hudson says, tapping one thigh. Monica obeys, and Ms Hudson's hands cover her ankle, making short work of the strap on the shoe and pulling it off.

Monica has to lean on Ms Hudson's shoulders to keep from falling.

"And the other," Ms Hudson says, and they repeat the process with the other shoe. Then Ms Hudson is quiet for a moment, still looking down, on one knee at Monica's feet.

"Hey," Monica says softly, and Ms Hudson looks up. "No fear, right?" She takes a deep breath as Ms Hudson stands again.

"No fear," she agrees. Her hands run along Monica's shoulders, then down over the outside of her bra. She pinches at Monica's nipples, and Monica's breathing speeds up. "I just don't know how far this can go," she adds, so quietly that Monica almost doesn't hear her.

Monica lifts her chin and looks into her eyes for a moment, then leans in to kiss her. She's like the whiskey, like the wine, rich and sensuous. When they part, Monica murmurs her words into Ms Hudson's mouth, a plea and an order.

"Just tell me how you want me."


End file.
